Something of Me
by race-the-ace
Summary: Sam needs some superglue and an umbrella.


**Something of Me**

_One-shot_

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters or plots. I mean no infringement, this is for personal benefit only.**  
>Fandom<strong>: Supernatural**  
>Pairing<strong>: None**  
>Word count<strong>: 1,162**  
>Rating<strong>: PG**  
>Summary<strong>: Sam needs some superglue and an umbrella.**  
>Prompt<strong>: _In The Light _by Led Zeppelin**  
>Beta: <strong>welfycat

**Author's Notes**:  
>- A bit AU, pre-series<p>

* * *

><p>Dean calls first.<p>

He calls when Sam is in class. Sam's phone lights up but doesn't make a noise, and it's hiding in Sam's backpack so he doesn't see it light up, either. Dean doesn't leave a message.

Sam calls next.

He waits as the phone rings, only to get Dean's voicemail. Dean's probably busy-fighting evil, drinking beer, or charming someone new. He says Dean's name, once, and then hangs up.

Dean doesn't call.

Sam calls again.

Dean picks up on the first ring and neither of them say anything. Dean may have called first, but only because he knew Sam wouldn't. He knew that sooner or later Sam would want to, and he was doing the older brother thing. He was giving Sam a sign that it's okay to call if Sam needs to. He needs to.

He can hear Dean breathing on the other end, soft and easy. It's nothing at all like the carefully controlled breaths that Sam is taking. He hasn't heard Dean's voice in three years. Not since he left for Stanford. It's gotten to the point where he's can't quite remember what it sounds like.

Sam takes a deep breath. His voice catches in his throat and he chokes on the exhale. Now that he has Dean, he doesn't know what to say to keep him. He doesn't know what to say to make anything better. He wants nothing more than to blurt out each and every one of his problems so Dean can solve them all in ten minutes like he always does. Sam's always been a mess, Dean's always been a cleaner.

Dean speaks then, his voice is warm and deep, without a hint of anything other than what Sam's always heard. "I can be there in two days, Sammy."

Sam nods even though Dean can't see him. "It's cold," is what he finally says. He means to tell Dean other things, such as how the traffic on 101 is terrible, and the traffic on 280 is much better, but there are more cops. "It's raining."

"Then you'd better get inside," Dean says, in that familiar brotherly tone. It's not quite an order, but not quite a suggestion. Sam has never been able to manage that voice, much to his dismay.

"How'd you know I was outside?"

"I can hear the rain, bitch. You better have an umbrella."

Sam does have an umbrella. It's resting inside of his backpack which is sitting on the ground at his feet. It has ducks on it, something Jess bought him a while back. Sam's always been too embarrassed to use it. "I do."

"Text me your street address," Dean says.

Sam swallows, "Okay."

"And get inside." With that he hangs up. Sam keeps the phone against his ear for a few more seconds, before slowly lowering his hand. He picks up his back pack and texts Dean as he sprints across campus towards his apartment.

* * *

><p>It's still raining when Dean shows up. He looks tired, but drops his bag at his feet and pulls Sam into a long, hard hug. It takes Sam a moment to remember to hug back, but he does. He squeezes Dean tight and inhales a scent that is purely his brother. He smells like the only home Sam has ever known.<p>

Dean pulls back and eyes him carefully. "Gonna invite me in?"

Sam nods jerkily and Dean kicks his bag inside, leaving it by the door. Sam's two roommates are gone for the rest of the month; Christmas is in four days. He has the place to himself and there's not a sign of the impending holiday anywhere.

Dean surreptitiously looks around before honing in back on Sam. "Nice digs."

"Thanks," Sam says. "Want to, uh, see my room?" It sounds weird to say _my room _as opposed to _our room_ when Dean's the one he's saying it to, Dean just nods though.

Sam leads him down the hallway and stops at his door. He pushes it open and Dean follows him in. There's a small bookcase and a desk. His mattress is on a bed frame so low to the ground that Sam's shoes barely fit underneath it. His brother takes the room in before he lands his gaze on one of two pictures Sam has displayed. One is of him and Jess, the other is of him, Dean, and the Impala.

It's an old photo, Sam is maybe twelve. Dean probably knows how old he is. He probably knows where and when that picture was taken, too.

"You look good," Sam says nervously, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Dean turns to face him. "You look thin."

"Finals just ended."

"Hmm," Dean responds, and Sam knows he isn't buying it. He also knows that Dean won't press for more answers.

The air around him starts to suffocate, and Sam can't stand still anymore. He makes his way back out of his room and heads for the kitchen. He's wanted nothing more than to see Dean for so long, but now that he's here, Sam has no idea what to say to him.

He feels like a stranger who knows a lot about Dean. He feels like Dean is a stranger who knows a lot about him.

Dean steps into the kitchen, and the room gets small again. Sam grabs him a beer out of the fridge, and a water for himself. Dean pulls the top off of the beer with ease and Sam struggles with his cap. His hands are slippery from condensation, and he can't get it together enough to do anything more than keep trying to breathe.

Warm hands pull the bottle from his grasp and a moment later Dean hands it back, sans lid.

Dean's halfway through his second beer when Sam blurts out, "Thanks. For coming."

"Not a problem, Sammy."

"I… I wasn't using an umbrella."

"I know."

"But I had one. In my backpack."

Dean raises his beer bottle to his lips. "I know."

It's been easy to forget what it's like having someone who knows him. Sometimes, at night, with Jess and the stars, it's harder. Mostly it's easy, though.

"Dean," Sam breathes. Their bottles hit the counter, Dean's with a thud, Sam's with a plop, and then Dean's hugging him again. He's about to come apart, but that's okay because Dean has superglue.

"I've got you," Dean says. "I've got you, Sammy."

* * *

><p>A week later, Dean's gone again. Now every room seems too big. There's a box on the couch with Sam's name on it. Christmas was three days ago, but Sam spent most of that drunk on eggnog and playing video games with Dean. He'd shoved a present into Dean's bag the night before Dean left, and Sam guesses that leaving something on the couch is Dean's equivalent.<p>

He pulls the lid off and inside rests a small, black umbrella with a note on top.

_Use it this time, bitch._


End file.
